


I Got You Under My Skin: Surfside Tattoo Verse

by vanillafluffy



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Danny gets new ink, Grace learns a new skill, M/M, P.I. Lou Grover, Tattoo artist!Danny, Throw canon in a blender and hit 'puree'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-09-28 04:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10072109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: This started as AU Danny/Steve and has morphed into an anthology of sorts with other characters we know and love both on and off stage. Updated as the muses move me. Enjoy!





	1. I Got You Under My Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a dark and stormy night, a guy named Steve walks into Danny's tattoo parlor and wants some ink.

Usually, Tuesday nights are the quietest nights for Surfside Tattoos. It isn’t the biggest place on Kapiolani Boulevard, or the trendiest, and Danny Williams likes it that way. He’s an old-fashioned kind of artist, and the stuff he does the most is what the kids these days call “Ed Hardy style”…clearly, they’re never heard of Sailor Jerry, the guy who pretty much pioneered the clean-lined skin-etching genre back when Hardy was still drawing with crayons.

On this particular Tuesday, the shop is empty. They’re having one of Hawaii’s rainier evenings, meaning if he was in Jersey, they’d think the sky was falling, and nobody seems to want to venture out in it to get ink. Danny’s got the TV on for background noise, and he’s spending the downtime wiping things down with alcohol and straightening up the worst of the clutter.

He’s surprised when the shop bell dings, although it’s only 7:20. The customer is wearing shorts and a vinyl windbreaker. His dark hair is soaked, but the rest of him is just a bit damp. 

Long well-muscled legs, Danny notes, and when the guy peels off the windbreaker, what’s under it in a tank top is equally buff. He’s already got some ink--something is showing under the straps of his tank on the right pec, and on his right thigh, there’s a dagger that looks like it’s sliced in and out of the skin as a sheath. Nice work, that.

“What can I do for you?” Danny asks.

“I’m looking for something like that.” The guy points to one of Danny’s sketches on the wall, the most complicated thing he’s ever done, or damn close to it--an old-school sailing ship with multiple masts and sails and ropes and shit.

Danny nods slowly. If his customer wants it scaled down for a bicep, he can simplify, but it had taken a couple days to draw that sucker full-size. It’s impressive, but a lot tougher than a black panther or pin-up girl.

“Backpiece,” the guy says. “With some waves around the bottom. You can do that, right?” As Danny hesitates, he says, “I’ve seen some of your work walking around the pier. You’re good.”

“Thanks. You do know that’s not going to happen overnight, right? That’s big and detailed, probably it’ll take a couple sessions just to rough in the outline. And it’s not going to be cheap.”

“I don’t care about cheap. This is going to last a lifetime--I want quality.”

Too bad everyone doesn’t feel like that. The number of people who try to bargain Danny into doing their work for next to nothing is ridiculous. Seriously, would they give away their services? He can just imagine going in for an oil change and trying to talk the tech into trading a couple quarts of 10W40 for the Quaker State logo on his wrist.

“Can you rotate it so it’s coming at an angle?” Danny freezes. That’s complex perspective stuff, and he has no faith in his ability to pull off anthing that fancy. “I want to be able to see the name of the ship on the hull,” adds tall, dark and fussy.

Danny relaxes. “If I put it on the bow, it would be so tiny you couldn’t read it,” he says. “But your ship name? Absolutely. There’s a couple ways we could do that….”

The final consensus is that “USS Lawton Chiles” is going to be inscribed in the “Maritime” font in an arched banner above the ship. His client seems satisfied.

Before Danny gets to work, he turns the sign on the door to “Closed”, because he’s not going to have time for anyone else tonight--not that he’s expecting a sudden rush of customers to brave the downpour.

His client stretches out belly-down on the table. A mirror hanging on the wall lets him look up and talk to Danny without having to squirm around. There’s a tribal design gracing the guy’s lower back--he’d call it a tramp-stamp if it was on a girl, and tough noogies to political correctness. Some people take shit way too seriously. He can work the wave design so it merges with the curves and points of the tribal--not the first time he’s done that--and he’s going to enjoy working on such a nice canvas. 

Danny goes to work with the stencil for the big design, playing with the scale on the copier so the ship will dominate the broad back and the waves will wrap around those gorgeous glutes. 

As the rains beat down and the tattoo gun buzzes, they fall into easy conversation. Danny learns that his client’s name is Steve, that he used to be in the Navy--used to be a SEAL, in fact--but retired when he tore the hell out of his knee. Now he has a dive shop out on the Kamehameha Pier, and does triathlons for fun. Danny can think of better things to do for fun, but keeps that to himself.

The rough outline of the piece is done by the time Steve departs--it’s almost midnight--and he’s back the next Tuesday evening for more. Danny can’t believe how his pulse speeds up as the other man enters the shop, smiling a greeting. He’s been trying to convince himself that the thoughts of Steve haunting him all week were because the backpiece is one of the most ambitious works he’s ever done, but he isn’t fooling himself.

The third week, Danny reserves the time for Steve. He makes sure nobody else is going to clutter up his schedule, because he wants to be able to concentrate on Steve. The earlier stages of the work have been healing well, and he has a pang of loss realizing that he’ll finish the details tonight and Steve will walk out of the shop and his life.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Steve says, about an hour in.

“Just trying to concentrate.”

“I’ve been wondering…you’re not from around here….”

“What gave it away?” Danny wipes away a smear of blood. “I’m from Jersey. My ex-wife got a job out here, and I followed to be close to our daughter. It’s okay, but I miss being able to get real pizza.”

“Your ex, huh?”

“Yeah.” Danny decides there’s no point in being coy. “She wasn’t too happy when I realized I really preferred playing for the other team.” 

In the mirror, Steve raises an eyebrow. “I can imagine,” he says. “I was still active duty when don’t-ask-don’t-tell was repealed. Two games got really popular, and I was good at both of them.”

Danny sets down the tattoo machine under the guise of measuring out more ink. The fact is, his hands are shaking, and he’s afraid he couldn’t draw a straight line to save his life. Oh god, bad, bad pun--!

“There were the guys who wanted to play ‘We don’t need no stinking queers in this man’s Navy’--the ones who are still in, they don’t care, they know it's none of their business.”

“What was the other game?”

Steve grins, and Danny’s really glad he isn’t trying to push ink right now. “That one was ‘Oops, I dropped the soap, can you help me find it?’ Sometimes, we even played it in the shower.”

“That sounds like a pretty good game.”

Steve’s smile broadens. “I could teach it to you, if you want.”

“It’s always good to learn new things,” Danny says happily. Before he can stop himself, he peels off his latex gloves, rests his right hand on one velvety ass-cheek and cups it like a ripe melon. He’s wanted to do that since approximately two seconds after Steve shed his windbreaker that first night. 

“I take it that means we’re done for this evening?” Without waiting for a reply, Steve rolls over and sits up. He grips Danny’s shoulder, and the tattoo artist leans into a kiss he’s been waiting for for what he’s pretty sure is his entire life.

The kiss goes on and on…Steve doesn’t seem inclined to break it off, and he has impressive breath control. Danny is light-headed, and it doesn’t help that a lot of blood is leaving his head for points south.

“My apartment’s upstairs,” Danny says when he can breathe again. “Let’s go find some soap.”

 

….


	2. Dropping Anchor at Kamehameha Pier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny's favorite customer returns, and they help each other out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to everyone who offered comments and encouragement on the previous installment. I couldn't get this 'verse out of my head, so here's some more.

When the guy in the suit walks into the shop, Danny considers punching him in the face just as a matter of principle. Then he realizes it’s Steve. The guy hasn’t been around in a while, and it’s good to see him, even if he does look wickedly corporate in that outfit..

“Hey you.” Danny pauses to dab a smear of excess purple ink from the orchid on the shoulder of the tourist chick from Cedar Rapids. Or maybe Grand Rapids--it’s one of those places he’s never been to, and he can live with that. “I almost didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” The client squeaks. “Hold still, hon. We’re almost done.”

Steve stands at parade rest--he probably doesn’t want to risk wrinkling the neat, dark suit--and waits patiently while Danny finishes up and instructs his client on how to care for her new tattoo.

Steve waits in the doorway to the back room while Danny disposes of sharps and bio-waste. “I need some ink,” he says abruptly.

What’s eating the guy? They had some good times, then Steve had pretty well dropped off the face of the earth, and now he just marches in all stone-faced, looking for ink? 

“I want a dove in flight on my left arm, angled down and inward, toward my heart.”

“That’s not hard.” Danny flips through one of his albums of flash. “Like this?”

“Perfect, but…instead of the branch could you make it so he’s carrying a shield in his beak?”

This is not a challenging request; it takes Danny less than a minute to find an image of an eagle doing the same thing. “This the kind of shield you want?”

“Like that,” Steve says, pointing to one of the small pieces framed on the wall.

“A cop shield?”

Steve sighs and nods. He shrugs out of his suit jacket and peels off the white dress shirt. Under it, he’s still as magnificently sculpted as Danny remembers. “I need numbers on it,” he adds. The words are drawn out, like he hasn’t slept in a long time. “They don’t have to be big. It doesn’t matter if nobody else can read them….”

Danny gets to work on the stencil, but hell, he has a conscience when it comes to his friends, and they’ve been that, at least. “Steve, y’know, I’m happy to have your business, but you sound kind of stressed, and it’s not a good idea to get inked like that. Why do you need this today?”

The other man takes a couple deep breaths. His face is frozen in an expression midway between sad and angry. “I just came from a funeral. Guy was my dad’s old partner, my godfather--I used to call him Uncle Richie. After my dad died--he was shot in the line of duty--Uncle Richie stepped up, made sure I had things like a suit for the prom and graduation, helped me get my first car…I spent the last couple months watching cancer eat him down to the bone, and there was nothing I could do for him when he needed me most.”

Which explains why he hasn’t been around, and makes Danny feel about two inches tall, but he has to admit it’s not like they’d been together long enough to share the really gritty stuff. And sometimes, he knows, Steve is a really private guy. 

“I’m sorry,” Danny says, which Steve can interpret however he wants. “How’s this?” He shows the stencil, and Steve okays the placement, still looking bleak. “You want any color in the details?”

Steve calms down as soon as Danny goes to work. Danny takes his time, because yes, he’s a perfectionist and he wants this to be first-class, but also so the endorphins have a chance to kick in. He sees the moment when Steve’s pupils dilate just a little and he relaxes almost imperceptably. There’s nothing like Mother Nature’s own painkillers to bliss someone out, and that’s what his boy needs right now.

The swooping dove is awesome; its bill is yellow, there’s a touch of gold on the shield, which has two neat tows of numbers on it, Steve’s dad’s and his uncle’s. Danny is pleased with how it came out. Steve just smiles. Yeah, he’s buzzed….

Danny brings him a can of cold pop when he returns from the back room. Probably Steve’s blood sugar is down around his ankles, with stress and the funeral any everything.

“It’s good you came in when you did,” he comments. “I’m not going to be here much longer.”

Steve recoils. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands. He’s certainly alert and aware now. 

“My fucking, money-grubbing ass-weasel landlord sold the building. I’ve got a lease through next February, but I have to be out by the end of this month. Then they’re demolishing the place.”

“Oh God, I thought you meant you had leukemia or something.” A shaky laugh. “You scared the hell out of me, Danny-boy.”

“Yeah, well, in case you hadn’t noticed, Hawaii isn’t exactly the most affordable place in the world to live. I’ve had the shop and the efficiency above it for cheap, because it’s old and out of code, and there’s no way I’m going to find anything else in the same range. I’m liable to wind up in some other shop, working for somebody else, and sleeping on the beach because I’ll never clear enough for a place to stay.” Danny blurts it all out, what he’s been agonizing about since he got the news. 

Steve nods. “Can you walk me home?”

What the hell, they’re both depressed, maybe hanging out for a while will cheer them both up. Looking at Steve, Danny doubts there’s going to be anything exciting on the menu, but that’s okay; he wants a change of scene, because being here and knowing it’s all going away soon makes him want to punch holes in the wall--and it’s not like he could tattoo with a busted hand.

“The pier?” Danny says a couple blocks later. “Are we going to your shop?” Steve has mentioned his dive shop is out here, but he’s surprised that the guy wants to check in there after the day he’s had.

“I’m going to stick my head in and see how things are going, but I also live upstairs.”

The Kamehameha Pier is lined with shops and restaurants, none of the buildings more than two storys. There are two docks at right angles to the pier, occupied by rows of modest boats--no yachts here. Danny’s been to the shrimp joint a few times for takeout--they’re pretty amazing. There’s an arcade that Grace would probably love, if Rachael would let him bring her out here. There’s… 

Danny’s brow furrows. “What the hell is ‘Think Tank’?” he asks.

Steve actually smiles. “It’s an aquarium store. All salt water fish--it’s pretty cool. Hey, Max!” he calls to the man industriously cleaning the front window with a microfiber cloth and a bottle of blue liquid. “How’s it going? It’s his place,” he says parenthetically. “He’s a great guy, very knowlegable.”

“Good afternoon, Steve. Do you remember the new octopus I got? I had him in a separate tank from Rocky. This morning when I came in, they were both in the same tank. I can only surmise that Rocky pulled him into the tank for companionship, as their interaction appears to be perfectly congenial.”

Danny wants to suggest that maybe one of them is really a girl octopus. Or maybe they want to hang out and arm-wrestle. But Steve has to live near the guy, so he doesn’t crack wise.

“Ah, the man with the gifted pen!” Max says when Steve introduces them. “I was quite impressed with the intricacy of the maritime anachronism you etched upon our mutual friend.”

“Thanks.” Knowlegable? It sounds like the guy swallowed a dictionary.

The last building on the left side of the pier is a two-story structure. It has two signs on the marquee, ‘Blue Heaven Surfboards’ and ‘Nautilus Dive Shop’. When they enter, Danny sees that the two business occupy one large open space. 

“Steve! How did it go?” 

The woman behind the counter is gorgeous, features clearly of Hawaiian ancestry. She’s tall and slender, and even in the simple tank top and shorts she’s wearing, she looks like a goddess. Danny looks more closely, recognizing the design playing peekaboo with her neckline. He inked those flowers, one of the first things he did after he opened the shop a year ago.

“It was a funeral, Kono. I hated every minute of it, but I couldn’t not go. Anything come up while I was gone?”

Kono shakes her head, layered dark hair swirling around her face. “Nothing special You have a booking for next Tuesday. I paid the light bill, you owe me $168. And I walked the dog about three o’clock, because you weren’t back yet.”

“I’m sorry, Kono. I stopped for some ink.” Steve looks apologetic. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“Hi, Danny. Nice to see you again.” She smiles at him. “You probably don’t remember me….”

“I remember the lei,” he says, nodding. “First big piece I did after I got here. I think I’ve gotten better at flowers since then. If you want a touch-up--”

“No, I’m happy with it the way it is, but I’ve been thinking about getting more work.”

“Great.” What the hell is he going to do after the end of the month, he wonders as they head up to Steve’s place, start making house calls? Become Honolulu’s first concierge tattoo artist? He’s so screwed. “Let me know.”

Upstairs, Steve’s home is a mostly open loft. The sleeping area is screened off for privacy with a big square of off-white canvas that reminds Danny of a sail. It matches the sofa and window coverings. The area rugs are that stuff that looks like they’re rope or twine, something like that. The walls were whitewashed a million years ago, but haven’t seen paint since. The floor is the one note of definitive color in the room--it’s painted shiny cobalt blue. The whole effect is unpretentious and comfortable, orderly without being uptight.

Danny likes it. “Nice.” He sees Steve’s wan smile and asks, “Have you eaten anything today?” Steve has to think about it for a moment before shaking his head. “Okay, I’ll make you something.” The fact that Steve doesn’t argue convinces Danny that he’s right to take charge. “Why don’t you go hang up the suit and get comfortable while I’m in the kitchen?”

Steve disappears behind the canvas partition, and returns a few minutes later in nothing but shorts and the bandage protecting his dove. He sinks into one of the mismatched chairs arrayed around the long wooden table like a marionette who’s strings have been cut..

Wonder of wonders, Steve’s pantry has the essentials. In short order, Danny’s whipped up a can of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Steve eats mechanically; he’s out on his feet.

Afterward, Danny shepherds him into the bedroom. The king-sized bed is occupied by a grizzled chocolate lab, who looks up at their entrance and wags his tail lazily.

“Who’s this?”

“His name’s Bosco.”

“Hiya, Bosco.” Danny holds out his hand, and the old dog licks his fingers, which are still a little buttery from making the sandwich. “You get in next to Bosco, facing him. That way you won’t be laying on your new ink. And I’ll get in behind you….” He snuggles in at Steve’s back.

Steve stays awake just long enough to mumble, “I’m sorry I didn’t call….” and then he’s snoring. 

Danny smiles and kisses his back, just below the banner that reads “USS Lawton Chiles”. He isn’t sleepy, but he’s comfortable. He’s bemused by Steve’s environment--somehow, he’d expected something more spit-and-polish, based on Steve’s naval career. This isn’t quite beachcomber casual, but it’s pretty laid-back. And Steve just…let him in.

_Maybe he missed me,_ Danny thinks. He’d rather think that than that Steve had just been needy after his loss. _Steve isn’t needy, is he?_ Danny’s brow knots. _All he asked was for me to walk him home; if I said ‘No, I can’t, I have to stick around in case I get customers’, Steve would’ve nodded and left--probably for good. But I walked him home, and--_

That Think Tank guy, Max, knew who he was…Steve had said, “This is Danny”, and Mr. Dictionary immediately connected him with Steve’s backpiece, even if he had called it something long-winded. Kono hadn’t seemed surprised that Steve had turned up with him in tow, either. Which hints that Steve has talked about Danny to his friends. Steve isn’t the chatty sort, so that means something.

And Bosco is awesome. 

At last, Steve is sawing wood. Danny gets up quietly and goes out to the big room. He clears away the dishes, not because he’s so fastidious in his own digs, but because Steve seems to be, and he doesn’t want Steve to have any reason, no matter how minor, to be upset; he has enough going on.

With that small task done, Danny looks around. There are three tall bookcases to the right of the front door, and he studies their titles. Everything Tom Clancy ever wrote, which doesn’t surprise him, a lot of Louis L’Amour westerns which does, kind of…some of the volumes were probably his dad’s, given how old they are.

Picking at random, Danny pulls out something called _The Day That Dusty Died_ , because he likes a good western, too. It doesn’t take long for him to realize that it’s a mystery, not a western, but by then he’s hooked by the story. He wanders over to the sofa, sinking onto the canvas cushions with a sigh. The fabric is as soft as an old pair of jeans. When he looks up from the book, toward the wall of glass, there’s the ocean, stretching away to the horizon like a blue sequined blanket. 

This is one of those moments that’s going to stay with him, he can tell. The comfortable room, the magnificent view, the low rumble of a boat chugging past….

Danny starts. Bosco is nuzzling him. The book has slipped to the floor. He picks it up and sets it on the wooden trunk that serves as a coffee table. The cop who’s the protagonist has some issues, and they made him uncomfortable, so he’s glad to set it aside, at least for now. 

“What do you want?” he asks the dog. “Do you need to go out?” 

Bosco’s tail scythes a happy arc. Apparently, “out” is a magic word. Okay, there’s a leash hanging on the back of the door, and Danny noticed where Steve put his keys, so he might as well take the dog for a walk, right? Steve could probably use another couple hours of shut-eye.

The pier is quieter than it was a few hours ago. There are still tourists wandering around, mostly holding food and drink, either peering into the windows of businesses that have already closed, or trying to finish their refreshments so they can enter the ones that are still open. There are clothing boutiques selling batik everything, shops with shell jewelry on display, an art gallery….

There’s more pedestrian traffic here than around the shop, Danny notes. But good grief, it must cost a ton to rent here. Something called “Good Morning Coffee” has gone out of business, and God knows, coffee is an essential food group.

Bosco seems to know where he’s going. Danny figures he does his business somewhere around the parking lot out by the road, but instead, the canine makes a sudden right turn and drags Danny into a long, low yellow building. He’s been to Kamekona’s before, but he has no idea how they’re going to react to his companion.

“You’re Danny,” the big smiling man behind the counter informs him. “Come on, you’re walking Bosco, who else would you be? You’ve been in here before, I think. Garlic scampi?”

Danny’s mouth is already watering. He hadn’t realized how hungry he’d been until now. “God, yes. Please.”

Kamekona tosses something over the counter and Bosco catches it in midair. “Don’t tell Steve,” he says to Bosco. “He says it’ll make you fat and give you gallbladder problems.” 

Danny starts rummaging in his billfold while Kamekona is dishing up the scampi. 

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll put it on Steve’s tab. You guys can work it out. We take care of each other out here.” He hands the plate full of buttery rice and fragrant shrimp across the counter to Danny. “Enjoy.”

For the next twenty minutes, that’s all Danny does; he eats shrimp, succulent pink morsels of heaven, with a mound of savory rice and little by little, his appetite is assuaged.

There’s a lull in the flow of customers, and Danny sits there, letting dinner settle and feeling happier than he has in weeks. Which isn’t rational; his problems are still out there. In two weeks and five days, the building he’s been occupying is going to be fair game for the Noshimuri Corporation’s bulldozers. The scampi was incredible, but no cure for what’s really bothering him. 

Something about Kamekona, so massive and jovial, reminds him of a cookie jar his aunt used to have, of a chubby monk in a brown robe. (”Thou shalt not steal!” was printed around the hem of his robe.) Danny feels like he can confide in the guy, and the next thing he knows, he’s spilled it all.

“That’s easy!” Kamekona scoffs, waving one meaty hand. “You go take a look at the coffee shop storefront, back down that way--” He rummages behind the counter and produces a key on a green lanyard. “If you think it’ll work, I’ll let you have it for the friends and family price. Right?” He tosses another tidbit to Bosco, who scarfs it with as much alacrity as the first one. _Please, God, don’t let the dog get sick on my watch,_ Danny prays.

He stands up, takes the key, and figures there’s no use setting his heart on the place without having an idea of what it’s going for. “How much is the friends and family price?”

“Ten.”

Danny reels back onto the chair. “Ten thousand?” he wheezes. Like setting up in a good mall on the mainland, he knew the pier wouldn’t be cheap, but there’s just no way.

Kamekona gives him a look of disbelief. “Ten _percent_ ,” he says, enunciating like Danny is slow or hard of hearing or something.

“Ten percent?”

“Ten percent of whatever you make in a month.” He’s still using that very gentle tone of voice. “I don’t think ten percent of that is going to be ten thousand.”

“I don’t thnk so either.”

Ten percent? That’s less that he’d have to shell out if he worked in somebody else’s shop. Hell, that’s significantly less than what rent is costing him at the dump he’s in now. There’s got to be a catch, but what the hell, he’ll go take a look.

Good Morning Coffee was next to a store that sells silk flower arrangements. “We ship everywhere!” their sign promises. The coffee shop, in contrast, lists its hours as 6AM-12PM and offers $1 refills with purchase of a Good Morning Coffee mug. The flower shop is a square, two-story cube, while the coffee shop to its right has one-and-a-half floors with a roof that’s lower on the far side, then swoops up to nestle against the flower shop..

Danny walks in and turns on the lights. The sun is setting, and violet twilight is settling over the pier. Bosco finds a corner he likes and gets comfortable while Danny explores.

The first thing is, it’s a bit bigger than his current shop. Not enormously, maybe a couple hundred feet. It’s three or four feet wider, and at least as deep. And it’s freaking perfect, except for the dull brown walls--and that’s an easy fix. 

There’s an open area at the front, where he can set up a few chairs for waiting clients. The counter is terrific--he’s wished for something like that to keep the looky-Lous from crowding around while he’s trying to work. He can lay out his photo portfolio and flash albums on it, and there’s space under it in the back to hold boxes and towels and stuff. He pictures it all, a lot more upscale than what he’s had, and if Kamekona is serious about the price, he’d have to be completely incompetent not to make money, and Danny knows he’s a decent artist.

The work area is a respectable size, with more than enough room for his barber-shop-style chair and padded table _and_ it has a stainless steel counter on the far side and an actual full-size sink, glory be! He looks up to the sloping roof-line. In addition to strips of fluorescent tubes, there’s a skylight in the slanting ceiling, which ought to allow for some great natural light during the day.

He wants it so bad he almost whimpers, and that’s before he steps into the back room. There are built-in shelves and a desk on one wall, and a door to a small but clean restroom. He can imagine using the place as a study, and if he has to, he’s pretty sure he can fit a twin-size air mattress if he ends up having to live here…although he should actually be able to save up for a place, if the friends and family price is for real.

“Hey, you!” sounds from up front. Danny goes out to find Steve--now with a polo shirt over his khaki shorts--reunited with Bosco, who's whining and wagging his tail, obviously delighted to see his person. 

“I was going to tell you about this place, but I see you found it. What do you think?” 

“Dude. It’s incredible. Look, Kamekona was talking about ten percent as rent, what’s the story on that? Is he serious?”

“Oh yeah, that’s for real. And he’s talking about out of the net, not the gross. If he thinks you’re trying to screw him, he will absolutely want to see your books, otherwise, it’s all good. Kono and I are making a decent living; Kamekono isn’t trying to making a killing. His family has owned this land since Captain Cook was a busboy, he likes to say. The Shrimp Truck alone probably makes enough money to cover his taxes, plus he gets dock rentals on the boats, plus the businesses.” Steve grins. “You couldn’t find a better place to set up shop, Danny-boy.”

“So why did the coffee place go out of business?” he asks, because that kind of thing bothers him.

Steve sighs and shakes his head. “Wrong place, wrong attitude. This isn’t exactly a commuter area, for one thing, and nobody is going to park their car and walk a block each way for their morning coffee. Not when there are two Starbucks with drive-thrus within a mile of here. The locals--we’ve got coffee pots, and we’re not gonna cough up five bucks for a cup of coffee. And that’s all there was--coffee. Kamekona tried to talk her into carrying pastries or breakfast sandwiches--tried to set her up with some lady he knows who bakes like an angel--but no. 

“Those hours might work somewhere else, but here, six to noon? No way. Yeah, I get some early bookings for dive trips, but they’re mostly tourists. Either they get free coffee at their hotels, or they go to you-know-where. Businesses here start opening around nine, for the most part, or ten. She just couldn’t make enough in those two-three hours to stay afloat.

“She finally lost it…I mean, lost her mind. She sold these fancy thermal mugs, twenty or twenty-five dollars, depending on the size. Had ‘Good Morning Coffee’ printed on ‘em. One day, some clown comes in with a refillable _Starbucks_ mug--”

“Uh-oh!” says Danny.

“Uh-oh is right. She took it from him, wrote F’s on it with a fat Sharpie so it said ‘Starfucks’, and threw it at him. Starting screaming that _he_ was the reason she wasn’t making any money, people like him sucking the corporate teat instead of supporting small businesses like hers. Jerry was in there, he said it was like watching a fluffy little puppy dog turn into Cujo. Next morning, Kamekona got a registered letter saying she wanted out of her lease, and nobody’s seen her since.”

“I am definitely not a six a.m. person,” Danny declares. “Unless I’ve had a really late night. And I can save for a place to live. I’ve been shitting bricks for a month, but I think I’m actually off the hook.”

“That reminds me,” Steve says. “Have you got my keys?”

“Oh yeah, sorry,” Danny says, fishing them out of his pocket. “I was just going to walk the dog--he hasn’t done anything, yet. Then I ended up in the Shrimp Truck talking to Kamekona, who sent me over here. My bad.”

Steve accepts the keys, then holds up one on a split-ring with a Nautilus Dive Shop key fob. “Here you go. Bosco likes you, I like you…you can come stay with us.”

Danny chokes up. He literally can’t make words emerge from his mouth, which keeps opening and closing in shock. Steve puts a finger under his chin and kisses him. That snaps him out of it, and Danny kisses him back enthusiastically.

There’s a rap on the window, and they both jump. A heavy man with a Greek fisherman’s cap riding atop a halo of dark curly hair waves at them. 

“That’s Jerry,” Steve says in a tight aside. “Great guy, boundaries are set kinda low. A little out there--he says he saw a mermaid once out at Lilani Point.” He waves back. “Captain Jerry! How’s it going?” Captain Jerry takes that as an invitation and joins them. “This is Danny, he’s going to be setting up shop here/”

“The backpiece guy?” Jerry sounds delighted, it’s not easy to see his expression through the full beard. “Fantastic! I’ve got some ideas for stuff I’d love to get--”

“He’ll be set up and open for business in a few weeks,” Steve says, while Danny takes another look around his new domain. 

Clean the rafters and light fixtures to make sure there’s no dust or anything floating down that could contaminate anything, get on the roof and scrub the skylight. Paint over the evil-looking mud brown walls, maybe rent one of those polishing machines and get busy on the floor, because the tiles are grimy AF. The new and improved Surfside Tattoos is going to be clean and airy and a serious money-maker, he’s sure of it.

He looks ahead to hanging the sign out front. His daughter had helped him design it. “Surfside Tattoos” it says in black tribal lettering on an aqua background--except for the S’s, all red tribal seahorses. The seahorses were Grace’s idea--”To make it look friendlier”. He loves that she’s got such great graphic ideas. If she ever wants to learn the business--

Jerry is edging out the door, saying it was nice to meet him. Danny gives him a good-bye wave, glances toward Steve.

“How about I take Bosco out to get things out of his system, while you go tie up loose ends with Kamekona.”

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll see you at home.”

Danny uncurls his hand and stares down at the brass-colored key he’s still gripping, the fob hanging out of his fist. There’s a jagged red impression of it on his palm, he’s been clutching it so tightly. 

“Yeah,” he says, although Steve and the dog are already out the door. “I’ll see you at home.”

 

 

…


	3. For the Love of Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny hires a P.I. when Grace has unexplained injuries.

Act One: The Case

To one side of the building housing the Blue Hibiscus Emporium is a small office that was once a small storefront. The display windows have platforms running their length where mannequins once posed. Now, they hold orchids, more than a dozen different types.

When it’s a particularly sensitive matter, and the client demands privacy, there are striped curtains that can be drawn, but mostly, Lou Grover leaves them open so he can see the pier outside and the various passersby. After twenty-five years as a cop in Chicago, he knows that awareness of one’s surroundings is an important survival skill. Also, he likes the view. 

At the moment, he’s waiting for a guy named Danny Williams. Lou knows who he is; Kamekono has given him a heads up, and he’s seen him around the pier. Apparently, he and the dive shop owner have been shacked up for the last few months. 

When his potential client walks in the door, Lou gets up from his chair and comes out from behind his desk to shake hands. The move may seem to be inspired by courtesy, but Lou also does it to subtly intimidate; at six-feet, four-inches tall, he towers over most people, and it’s a good way to head off aggression before it starts. 

Williams barely comes up to his shoulder, but from the sharp assessment in his blue eyes, Lou pegs him as a terrier-type, like a small dog who’ll take on something that could easily bite him in half. Lou is careful; over the years, he’s learned that scrappy little guys are usually more trouble than guys who are as big as he is--they aren’t used to picking on someone their own size, whereas dudes Williams’s size have been getting picked on by bigger guys their whole lives--they know all the dirty tricks.

“Okay,” Lou says once they’ve settled into their seats. “Kamekono says you’ve got a problem. Start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”

“Well, I’m divorced. Rachel got custody of our daughter, Grace. They moved out here when she got remarried. I sold everything I owned, practically, and followed them out here.”

He’s being succinct; there’s more he isn’t saying, Lou is sure. His tone is guilt and anger and…pain. Lots of it. To give him a moment to collect himself, Lou reaches behind him to the mini-fridge. “Water, Mr. Williams?”

Williams accepts it with thanks, and drinks thirstily. Takes a deep breath and goes on. “I’m a tattoo artist, I’ve got a shop on the other side of the pier--Surfside Tattoos. Everything would be good, except for…this problem I’ve got.”

“I’ve seen the sign.” The shirt Williams is currently wearing, in fact, touts Bayside Tattoos, Bayonne, New Jersey in dark blue on a faded green background. “And the problem is what, exactly?”

“The thing is, Rachel doesn’t think this is a suitable place to take a child. So Grace isn’t allowed to come out here. I see her every other Saturday. I pick her up at noon at the Starbucks at the mall. She’s thirteen…and a half, very important, that half…her mom drops her off, she gets her frou-frou latte or whatever, I pick her up, I have her for a few hours, drop her back off, don’t have to deal with the ex--”

“But?” Lou prompts.

“Last week, Grace wasn’t moving right. She had some bruises, and she said it was from gym class.”

“In _July?_ ”

“I know, right?! Anyway, she was freaked out about it. Made me promise not to talk to her mom about it. I had to swear it on my life. Dumb kid, doesn’t she know she _is_ my life?”

Lou feels real sympathy. “I’ve got two kids, a girl and a boy. He’s about your daughter’s age. She’s sixteen. Let me warn you, it does _not_ get any easier just because they get older.”

“Look, I know I can’t just go charging in there like John Wayne. Stan, that’s Rachel’s new husband, Stan can afford to sic every lawyer on the island on me. He’s the type who’d file so many restraining orders that I probably couldn’t see my own daughter until she’s 21. But if he’s the one roughing her up, I’m not gonna sit still for that!”

Yeah, he can believe that. Williams has access to his buddy Steve’s boat? Stan would be sleeping with the fishes, The other man has that look in his eye. 

“And since I haven’t made any promises to your daughter, you want me to find out what’s going on.”

“You got it.”

“What if it turns out to be your ex?” That look? That’s anguish more than killing fury. Mr. Williams does not like that idea at all.

“I have to know,” he answers, his voice low.

“Well, then. I guess I’ll find out for you.”

 

=0===0===0===0===0=

Act Two: The Investigation

 

If whatever is happening to Grace Williams is happening behind closed doors, it’s not going to be easy to find out. That doesn’t mean it’s impossible, but there are things Lou wants to try before resorting to infiltration and surveillance inside the Edwards home.

He does some digging on Stanley Edwards and Rachel Winslow-Williams-Edwards. She’s originally from London--the one in England--and it boggles Lou’s mind, trying to imagine Mr. Scrappy-Terrier Williams with My Fair Lady. Her second husband, on the other hand, is a type that infests the islands--a real estate developer. 

One good thing you can say about that type, at least from the perspective of someone in his line of work, is that they’re easily impressed by the trappings of wealth. After two days of following Edwards to establish his patterns, Lou dons his best suit--Italian tailoring courtesy of the Fanucci Brothers of Chicago--adds the pinkie ring with its 2-karat diamond to his right hand, and plants himself at the bar in the Parrot Azul Cafe about ten minutes before Edwards usually shows up. 

Most people are creatures of habit, and Edwards is no exception. He arrives and gravitates to a space a few feet from Lou’s position. The bartender knows him and is right there with something yellow and garnished with fruit in a tall glass. “Your Yellow Bird, sir.”

Lou doesn’t drink quite as fast as Edwards, but he motions the bartender for a refill about the time his quarry has slurped down the first couple inches of his second drink. When he has his fresh highball in hand, Lou tastes it, sighs gustily and says, “Kids!” Edwards looks his way. Lou catches his eye and nods. “You know what I mean?”

Edwards gives a vague nod and drinks some more of his big, fruity drink. “Yeah.”

“My boy. He’s gonna be fourteen. Spends all summer hanging at the mall with his pals, gets the idea that I’m supposed to buy him a whole bunch of fancy new clothes for school next year, like it’s his _right_. Hey, it’s not like I can’t afford to dress the kid--” He waves the hand with the pinkie ring--it flashes his good cufflinks, too. “--but when I was his age, I was happy to get a couple new shirts and some khakis from Sears and Sawbuck. And maybe a pair of Calvin Klein or Jordache jeans, you know what I’m saying?”

According to Lou’s research, Edwards comes from a working-class background; he knows. 

“That’s nothing,” he scoffs. “My girl’s the same age--girls are worse! Your boy wants a pair of fancy shoes, right?” If Danny Williams heard this lush referring to Grace as ‘his’, he’d be in a chum bucket by morning. “My girl needs, absolutely has to have the right sneakers _and_ the right shoes for class, but in at least three different colors, and at least two pairs of boots, one low, one high--never mind that we’re in the tropics and it probably won’t go below 60!” Edwards knocks back more of his drink as if it’s to blame for his step-daughter’s consumerism.

“And the clothes--gotta be just the right brands or she’ll get laughed at!--plus the accessories: the sunglasses, the belts, the bags and the backpack. My wife handles all that, I can’t do it or I’m gonna have an aneurysm. Friggin’ back to school’s gonna cost more than my first car!”

“I hear you,” Lou oozes sympathy, one-dad-to-another. “There’s times I just want to _grab_ that kid and _shake_ some sense into him. In ten years, it’s not going to make a fucking bit of difference what kind of shoes he wore in ninth grade!”

“Nah….” 

Edwards drains his drink, and the bartender is there to exchange the ice cubes for “Another Yellow Bird, Mr. Edwards?” before he can even set it down.

“Can’t do that dowadays,” Edwards slurs, leaning close. “I know where you’re coming from, my old man woulda given me an attention-getter upside the head if I started making demands like that. But today? Too many nosy fuckers with their noses in everybody’s business. And Grace would run to--well, never mind. Point is, you got to be sneakier than they are. More carrot, less stick.”

“I’ve tried bribing the little bastard. That adds up pretty fast.” Lou raises his glass to his lips, barely tastes it, sets it back down. Edwards is past noticing how much he’s consuming.

There’s a smirk on Edwards’s face. “What we giveth, we can also taketh the fuck away. Put parental controls on the cable box. Change the password on the modem. Or…” He leans close, giggling rum fumes, and Lou’s pretty sure his breath could ignite if you held a match in front of him. “Take away the cord from their game system--they’ll be little angels to get the magic cord back.”

He beams, and Lou doesn’t say what he’s thinking, that a trick like that will only work once, because the kid will buy a replacement cord off the internet, get it shipped to a friend’s house and stash it somewhere in case of future oarental bullshit. Still, he’s found out what he came for--Mr. Yellow Bird doesn’t seem to be the one man-handling Grace Williams.

 

=0===0===0===0===0=

Act Three: Busted

 

The next day is Saturday, and Lou is pressed into service by Renee, to pick Will up after his karate class. His wife is still ticked off that he’d gotten in late to supper last night, smelling like bourbon. It’s annoying, because he wanted to see how Grace Williams really spends her unsupervised Saturdays--young as she is, he can’t rule out an abusive boyfriend. But Renee has other, harsher tactics she can use to punish him, so he smiles and says, “Of course, sweetheart. Anything else you need me to do?”

Mentally, he rearranges his plan of attack. Follow Rachel Edwards next week, see if there are any habitual blocks of time in her schedule that he can exploit to get close, and if he can’t get anything on her by, say, Wednesday, he’ll get ahold of an unscrupulous friend to pose as a guy from the pest control company to go plant some bugs. He’s checked out the neighborhood where the Edwardses live--it’s very upscale, which always makes sitting, watching and waiting a real pain in the ass.

The class is over at 11:45. He gets there at 11:30, because he wants to see his boy in action. He’d like to know if he’s raising the next Dwayne Johnson or if he should save his money and the kid’s orthodontia.

As he walks into the community center gym where the class is held, he sees Will land a solid kick on his opponant’s thigh. He winces; did his son just hit a _girl_?

The girl hits back. Will lands on his behind, and Lou grins. Then his eyes widen, and he laughs outright. Will shoots a betrayed look in his direction, but Lou is busy hauling his phone out to snap pictures. He has definitive proof as to how Grace is getting those bruises, although to be on the safe side, he’s not going to identify his son for her sure-to-be-outraged dad.

After class, Will takes his time in the locker room, long enough for his dad to see young Grace changed out of her karate pajamas, into perfectly respectable shorts and baggy tee shirt. Clearly, she takes after her mother--with her dark hair and eyes, the only things that resembles Danny Williams are her fashion choices. When Will reemerges, Grace says something to him, and he grins at her. 

Oh Lord--are they flirting? It’s a good thing Lou doesn’t have a big investment of time or money in this case, because it’s looking less and less like he’s going to be able to charge for it.

“Hey, Dad, this is Grace--could we give her a ride home?”

“You don’t have to do that,” Grace says. She has a dimple when she smiles, and if it wasn’t for Daddy worrying about his little girl’s bruises, he’d say his boy had a pretty good eye. “I’m going to meet up with some friends at the Kapiolani Plaza for a movie, I can just catch the bus.”

Lou sees his son’s eyes brighten, and goes into buzzkill mode. “Will, you have to mow the yard for your mom. If I leave you at the mall, _I’ll_ have to do it, and that’s not going to happen. On the other hand, Grace, we’d be happy to drop you off.”

“That’s another thing I miss about Chicago,” Will says to her, apparently part of an earlier conversation. “No lawns to move on the 15th floor!”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re so abused,” Lou says, but his heart isn’t in it. He’s just pleased that the answer to the mystery has landed in his lap. Grace gets dropped off at Starbucks, about fifty yards from the Royal Palms Cinema, and father and son drive home, thoughts different trains on the same track. 

The following week, Renee is surprised and slightly suspicious when Lou volunteers to pick up Will, although when he says it’s to get the boy home promptly after class to help him clean out the gutters, she changes her tune.

Williams is already there, and has snagged a primo parking space where he can’t miss anyone exiting the building. He’d taken the news of his daughter’s activities more calmly than Lou had expected. It seems that back when the Williamses were still married, Danny had enrolled Grace in a junior karate class, which her mother had vetoed loudly when she found out about it. Just one of many things they’d argued about, Danny sighed. Although he guesses Grace forged the permission slip to take the class, but hey, more power to her, if Rachel is going to be a hard-ass about it.

Lou waits for his son in their sedan. He doesn’t plan to get in the middle of this if he can help it. When Will and Grace walk out laughing, together, Danny lets out a taxicab-whistle that stops his daughter in her tracks. The look on her face says she knows she’s busted, but she turns a bright smile in her father’s direction, and heads that way. So does Will.

This is going to be awkward. Lou tries to sink down behind the wheel, but he’s not really designed for it. When Will turns toward the car, Danny’s gaze follows him. 

“Everything go all right?” he asks when the boy slides in beside him.

“Yeah, dad. How come you’re picking me up? What happened to Mom?”

Lou’s eyes are still following the little drama across the lot. “Gonna take you to lunch on the way home, so we’ll be fed and ready to clean out the gutters.”

Will groans.

He may be pissed, but Danny opens the door of his old Dodge for his little girl and holds it for her. There’s some back-and-forth between them, and Lou wishes he’d thought to bring his little directional mike. Whatever it is, Williams can’t be too mad--Grace throws her arms around him, and the guy looks about as proud as a father can get. 

Williams goes around and gives Lou a little nod as he opens the door. He gets into the car, which rumbles off a few minutes later.

Yeah, come Monday morning, Lou is going to have to perform the ultimate friends-and-family price reduction. But first, damn it, he’s on the hook for cleaning out those gutters.

 

…


	4. Fill In the Blank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny finally comes to a decision about the ink he wants for a vacant section of his epidermis. From the prompt, "the secret meaning behind a tattoo".

It’s the nature of the beast: When you’re a tattoo artist, you collect a lot of ink. It’s what you do. Danny Williams is no exception. Various colleagues have wrought their artistry on his hide; he’s returned the favor on quite a few of them.

There’s one glaringly empty spot, though. It wraps around his left bicep, most of the space between his elbow and shoulder remaining stubbornly blank while his other arm is mostly sleeved. His pecs are filled in, and there’s a fantastic backpiece of the Chrysler building being picked up by a crane like a prize in an arcade game. Little by little, his legs are acquiring pigment. That big patch of virgin skin, though, stays bare.

When people ask about it, Danny shrugs. He’s spun assorted stories about it over the years, but the bottom line is, for years, he planned to put a portrait of Grace there. 

The problem is--which picture? Because she’s so absolutely beautiful to him, has been at every age. How can he choose one? The picture of her grabbing her own foot when she’s just a few months old? Dressed up for her first communion, looking touchingly solemn and heart-breakingly innocent? Playing softball, cap on backward, eager grin on her face as she gets ready to steal second? Then too, who does he give the honor to? He knows a lot of people in the business, and some of them are damn fine portraitists. If he picks one, it’s going to piss off at least a dozen others.

So Danny’s left arm continues to have a major vacancy. Year by year, the space around it fills with color. His baby grows into a litte girl who is becoming an amazing young lady. They’ve gone from dingy Bayonne, New Jersey to the beautiful state of Hawaii, and he’s so proud of his Grace. Her grades are better than his ever were, she’s almost to her brown belt in karate, and she absorbed the news that dear old dad was going to be moving in with another guy without a qualm. Even when he points out that it means he and Rachel aren’t ever going to be getting back together.

“I know that, Dad,” she says patiently. “Mom’s happy with Stan. Now I’ve got two homes!”

Grace loves it at the pier. Since Rachel’s sudden change of heart in allowing her to stay with Danny weekends, she’s become part of their big, happy ohana. Kamekona makes her bacon-wrapped shrimp skewers, Max has introduced her to Think Tank’s octopi, Steve is teaching her to dive--they adore each other--and Kono’s giving her surfing lessons (and is getting her a board all her own for her birthday--shh! Don’t tell!). 

With his daughter’s days so full, Danny’s always pleased when she chooses to spend time with him. It reminds him of the old days, when there was a little corner of the shop in Bayonne dedicated to her, with all the paper and crayons she could want. Rachel slept evenings and worked overnights in the casinos, getting home in time to see Grace off to school. Danny took over after school, then brought her home and tucked her in after he closed the shop. It had worked nicely, until Rachel had met Mr. High Roller--Stan the Man, Real Estate Mogul and Homewrecker Extraordinaire.

But what the hell--if Rachel hadn’t divorced him and moved out here with Grace, Danny would still be trapped in the so-called Garden State, dying a little more inside every day. He’s here now, and he has Steve, who, he has to admit, is more the love of his life than Rachel ever was.

One rainy afternoon, when the shop is deserted except for him and Grace, she surprises him. She pulls out a portfolio of her artwork and shows it to him, and she’s good. He takes his time looking them over. She’s still finding her voice, so to speak--there’s a variety of media, from pen and ink to watercolor to pencil sketches to pastels--but for a fifteen-year old, it’s surprisingly sophisticated.

“Can you teach me to tattoo, Danno?” she asks, second shock in ten minutes.

“Your mother would kill me.”

She gives that the eyeroll it deserves.

“Your portfolio isn’t bad, kiddo--but tell me you didn’t cherry-pick the best stuff from however much work you’ve done. Yeah, I thought so. So I’m going to give you assignments this week, so we’ll see what you come up with on a deadline. I’ll text you and let you know what I want you to draw for me. I’ve got a brand-new sketch pad in the office, all ready for you to make your mark.”

The following week, she hands him the sketch pad with the same expression earned her the nickname “Monkey” as a child. Her nose is scrunched up and her mouth is set in a funny little moue. Her eyes squint at him like he’s been poking her with a stick and she’s about to grab it and hit him back. She cradles the sketch pad protectively and hands it over with obvious reluctance.

These are definitely not the showpieces she’d assembled for her portfolio. Still, everything she’s drawn is recognizable as something he assigned her. She’s got a good eye for basic perspective. Danny’s favorites, though, are the funny little line drawings that demonstrate her sense of humor. She’s got talent; there are certainly related fields she could aspire to: illustration, cartoonist, graphic designer. But meanwhile, if she wants to learn to push ink, he’ll teach her.

They start with bananas, not too ripe, and progress to room-temperature bratwurst. “Bananas will never bleed all over your shop, or puke on you, and a bratwurst will never talk stupid politics at you, or have their drunken girlfriend come in and threaten to shoot them.” Danny tells her.

Grace nods. What did he expect? She practically grew up in his shop, she’s always had a burner phone in her pocket with instructions on what circumstances to use it under, especially ‘Shots fired’.

Finally he says, “Next week, you do your first person. You think you’re ready?”

She’s alight with excitement. “Yes, Danno!”

“I want you do think about what kind of piece you’re going to do.”

“What _I’m_ going to do? The client picks out the artwork--even I know that!”

Danny shakes his head. “ _You_ get to pick what goes _here_ \--” He indicates his upper arm, and her eyes go wide.

“Me?” She stares at his fair skin, almost frightened for a moment, then her eyes narrow. She reaches out, measuring the void with her hand. “Okay…is there anything you absolutely _don’t_ want?”

Somehow, he’s become convinced that this is the right thing to do. He’ll never be able to single out one particular frame of Grace for the apocryphal portrait, he can’t imagine anyone he’d rather have etch something into that long-held space. “Honey, I have faith in you not to mark me with anything offensive or childish, and I have faith in your talent to do it right.”

“It’s hard to explain,” he says later to Steve, “but even if Gracie never does another tattoo in her life, I’ll have that _one_ forever. And even if she joins the life and does thousands of them, this will be her first. Everybody has to start somewhere.”

The following week, Danny shakes his head when Grace offers to show him her sketch. “Go for it, Monkey. I’ll look when you’re done.” He resists the temptation to peek, even when she’s over at the copier fiddling with enlargements and a stencil. She's a little jittery, he can tell, but she’s determinedly not letting them stop her. 

“You’re right,” she says after a little while. “I’ve never seen a banana bleed this much.” 

“Use as many towels as you need to. If you can’t see what you’re doing, wipe. You can always touch up the stencil.”

“I’m sorry if I’m hurting you.”

“Nah. I’m tough, I can take it.” He grins at her, and she responds with a shy smile, quickly gone as she resumes work.

Danny studies her--not what she’s doing to his arm, but how she handles the equipment --changing out the width on the needle bars, mixing pigments. She’s focused intently, but _not_ tense. He’s seen his share of tense noobs, but she isn't one of them. She’s competent, he realizes with a surge of pride. His little girl knows what she’s doing.

“It’s kind of funny--me doing a tattoo when I don’t have any of my own.”

“Because you’re underage and your mother would kill me. You turn 18, we’ll talk. Just, whatever you do, baby, don’t let anybody else ink you first. Please?”

“I promise. I wouldn't trust anybody else.” She’s quiet for a while, but her hands are busy. Whatever she’s pushing, she’s really filling it in. Danny’s arm is starting to feel tenderized--he’s past the endorphin stage--but he wouldn’t inhibit her progress for anything.

“Almost done,” she says. It’s been two-and-a-half hours, with pauses for her to flex her hands--this is the most she’s inked at a stretch, she’s going to have no grip tonight.

He keeps his head turned to the right, even when she goes to the back for more wipes. At this point, whatever it is, it’s _done_. It’s as much a part of him as Grace is.

She’s holding a mirror--no, two mirrors. If it’s something that would be reversed by the first mirror, he’ll need to look at the reflection of the reflection in the second one to see it properly.

“What do you think?” she asks, her voice not quite steady.

Danny looks into the second mirror and can’t speak because of the lump in his throat. 

Filling up most of the image is a heart. Inside it are three words, one on each line. The top and bottom lines are in a big puffy font that looks like rainbow-hued graffiti. The middle word is bold, solid dark blue like the outline of the heart, which is shadowed lightly with soft purple.

**GRACE  
LOVES  
DANNO**

“I love you, too, Gracie,” he finally manages to say. “Good job.”

“I think I missed--”

“It’s okay. If you did, you can touch it up in a couple weeks. You did a good job. I’m proud of you.”

Grace starts daubing Neosporin on the raw tattoo. "Stay out of direct sunlight until it heals up. No hot water, and especially no salt water. If it itches, don't scratch it. If you mess that up, I'm going to be pissed."

Danny laughs. How many times has he warned customers that those things will fuck up their new tattoos? "Little pitchers have big ears," he teases.

"I mean it, Danno! I've heard you say it a hundred million times--'If the customer screws up the tatt, they blame it on the artist, and that makes me look bad.'" She's wrapping his arm with gauze while she lectures him. "Well, I put a lot of work into that, so you'd better not make me look bad!" 

Danny gets a kick hearing his words being repeated by his not-so-little girl. How did he not realize that she already knows the business, she just needs hands-on experience. His tender bicep is a small price to pay for Grace's gift--of her talent and her love. The ink she's given him is more than just pigment pushed under his skin, it's the greatest validation he's ever gotten. All this time, he thought he'd fill that space with her picture--all those years anticipating the indelible forever. 

It was worth the wait.

 

…


	5. Hawaii Confidential

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "Confiding secrets".

“Nautilus Dive Shop, how can I help you?”

“Uncle Steve?” 

“Grace--what’s wrong?” Danny’s girl is supposed to be at art school on the mainland--what’s urgent enough for her to be calling here instead of Surfside Tattoos?. Oh god--is she calling from a hospital or jail?

“Please, can you do me a huge, huge favor?”

“I’ll run and get your dad, I don’t know why he’s not answering--”

“No!” Her voice rises in panic. “Don’t tell my dad!”

Be calm, he tells himself. If you’re calm, she’ll be calm. “Okay, honey--whatever you say. What’s wrong? Tell me, we’ll work it out.” Bail money, how much can I get my hands on?

“Can you come pick me up?”

“Pick you up where? In Savannah?!”

“At the airport.” Three little words filled with sadness and defeat, it sounds like.

It’s barely February; she’s not scheduled to come back for months, which sounds like she’s flunked out. Danny’s going to be unhappy about that, although he’ll undoubtedly be overjoyed to see Grace again.

“Sure, no problem--where are you?” Good thing Kono’s in, she can cover for him.

All the way to the airport, Steve psychs himself up to Be There for her. Grace is a terrific kid; he’d like her even if he wasn’t shacked up with her old man. School, yeah, it’s important, but Grace is young, and just because that school wasn’t a good fit for her doesn’t mean she won’t succeed somewhere else, after she’s had a chance to regroup.

“Hey sweetie, it’s good to see you.” He hugs her-- she needs a hug--most kids put on weight when they go away to school--Grace is thinner and there are smudges of fatigue around her eyes. She leans against him like standing is an effort.

From the East Coast to Hawaii--she’s been traveling for at least a day, and if she’s worried about breaking bad news to her dad, she likely hasn’t slept at all. Poor kid!

He hands her into the car, deals with her luggage, and gets on the road. “So look,” he says a couple miles later, when she’s shown no inclination to be her usual chatty self. “I haven’t said anything to Danny, it’s not my place, but I want you to know, I fully support you.”

“You do?!” She’s giving him a funny look, disbelief and something else.

“Sure,” he responds, determined to see this through. “Anybody can flunk out of school. It happens.”

“Um, Uncle Steve? I didn’t flunk out.” Good thing they’re at a traffic light, so he can eye her for a long moment until she sighs and admits, “They threw me out.”

“What for?”

Grace makes a noise that’s somewhere between a tea kettle at full boil and a scalded cat. “It was so stupid!” she declares. “They busted me for pushing ink in my dorm room.”

“Wait, what?” A horn blares behind them. Steve belatedly moves forward, pulls into the first parking lot he sees, stops, and stares at her.

“I have my own rig. I got it mail-order. I was working out of my room, doing smalls on other kids in the dorm, nothing major--it’s not like I went and sleeved anybody! Then this one kid went home a couple weeks ago, his ‘rents saw his ink and freaked, and the little dweeb gave me up!”

“They kicked you out for that?”

“They wanted me to get rid of my rig and promise I’d never do it again!” She sounds insulted, but knows she’s in trouble, because then she says. “OMG, Danno’s gonna kill me!”

“ I don’t think so. I know he really misses you, he’s going to be glad to see you but mad? You have talent, he knows that. Yeah, he’ll be disappointed, because he liked the idea of you having a better education than he did, but he loves you, never forget that.”

“I know. I hate disappointing him.” Grace sighs, eyes downcast--for about five seconds, then she perks back up. “I’ve got pictures of the stuff I added to my portfolio--I did this really wicked peacock--” That’s more like the girl he knows.

Steve chuckles. “You’re your father’s daughter, Gracie--sometimes, I feel like you’re mine, too. I’m really glad you reached out to me. I’ll help you talk to Danny. Don’t worry, we’ll get through this.”

“You’re the greatest, Uncle Steve.” Her smile is heartfelt. Nothing shows her relief more than her quiet surrender--she’s asleep by the time they get home.

….

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking at prompts and read one that said "Tattoo artist!Danny", which struck me as an excellent idea, until I looked at the rest of the post and realized it was another Danny in a different fandom. Oops. Still, the idea of Danny Williams as an ink-pusher wouldn't go away, so I wrote this.


End file.
